Setting Writing Records

I am starting to wonder if I can garner at least one rejection every day. This would be hard because I don't really send out that much material, but if I work at it a bit, I think I can achieve my goal. I can only hope that they will all be as enlightening and informative as the one I received last week, in which I was told my story would be funny if it ended with me becoming a nun, but not otherwise. You can't argue with logic and insight like that.

On another note, I have my second writing assignment from my internship. My first was a little round up of a number of plays on Broadway with two sentences synopses of them. This went well. The second one is to look at real estate and write about some neighborhoods. I am very excited about this and I think it will be lot o' fun, even if it is not the slightest bit strange or containing foul language.

I hope I do not scare the editors away with my enthusiasm. Although if I do, I can count them toward my daily rejection tally. Every cloud has a silver lining and all that.

It's Quiet Today

Damn, I just opened a letter stating that my beloved gyn is leaving her practice. Of course, it gives no other information about where she is going. Fuck fuck fuck.

That's all that is happening.

Tomorrow is Feb. 1, a.k.a. Blog Exchange Day

Every first day of the month, Motherhood Uncensored sponsors The Blog Exchange. I had a lovely exchange in January with Dana of The Dana Files, and I am very excited to "switch" blogs tomorrow with the The Gunfighter at The View from Here.

Every month the blog exchange has a theme, and February's topic is mimicry. Participants are to " Write a post in the voice/style of a famous person (actor, singer, author, whatever). It can be an hot topic, current issue, or just a regular old post... Readers will then have to guess who you are (just to make it extra fun)." So now you know tomorrow I will be writing in someone else's voice on a different person's blog, and another person will be writing in a voice not his on my blog. I like it.

The W-2 Saga Continues

I heard nothing back from the stupid fucks at my former employers about whether they would do anything about my request to fix my W-2 so that it was my actual address, not:

Suite 1800
New York, CA 94111

. I put in a call to the office and had the following surreal conversation:

Idiot: Yes, we filed an amendment to have it fixed.
Me: When can I expect it?
Idiot: When I get it, I'll overnight it to the office.
Me: (In my head: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? DO I FUCKING LIVE AT THE OFFICE? NO, THANK GOD i DO NOT!!!!!) Um, can you please send it directly to me? It is already significantly delayed.

Idiot: Well, I'm afraid it might get lost in the mail.
Me: (Losting patience) How do you think I got it in the first place? You overnighted to the office, where they sent it to my home after my real address was written on the envelope next to the little plastic window. I am suggesting that you overnight it to me, given that it is late and it is Idiot Fuck Company's* fault that it is late. You need to eat that $10 shipping charge.

Idiot: (Hesitating) I guess I could. But really, why do you need the correct form anyway? It's not like the IRS is going to know if you file electronically. You should file electronically.

Seriously. This is what the person in PAYROLL asked me. It seems that she does not know that a copy of my W-2 is sent to me after it is already filed with the IRS, and their records might find it odd when I fill out my forms (electronically or on paper) that I live in a non-existant town in a San Francisco zip code with no street address according to my employer records, but I claim to live in an actual residence in New York, and I only want to pay New York taxes. No, not a big deal at all, especially if I was audited.

Wine is Overrated

When I arrived home this afternoon from my first meeting as a magazine intern (!), I rushed to the kitchen for a snack. An apple with cheese is on my approved low-carb, anti-diabetes diet, and I grabbed an apple up greedily and smeared low fat spreadable cheese on it. Really, it was not the apple but the cheese that excited me so. I realized at that moment that if someone offered me shit with cheese on it, I might actually consider eating it, depending on the type of cheese. That is how much I love cheese. (Or a sign of how disturbed I am.)

Reflecting on shit-covered cheese reminded me of my last shower at my parents’ house. The water in Chicago is ridiculously hard, although it is not well water. (It’s fresh from Lake Michigan, although until modern plumbing solved some serious pollution issues, the water pumped from the lake was actually full of shit and disgusting.) Thus I always need conditioner for my hair when I am at my folks’, whereas I never use it in New York. I noticed that they had a bottle of Herbal Essences conditioner, so I dumped some on my head without really smelling it first. Herbal Essences is supposed to be so good that commercials portray sexy women having orgasmic experiences in the shower, hence I figured it would smell good.

The saying, “If you assume something, it makes an ass of you and me,” is very applicable in this situation. I don’t know what was wrong with their Herbal Essences, but it had the essence of an animal with a flower-based diet that shit on my head. I was not pleased, although perhaps if it had cheese in it, I may have nibbled at it.

Just Wait 20 Years or So, Kiddo

“Oooh, what’s this?” little me was thinking to myself while I patted Grandpa Ruby’s beard. “Good thing I don’t have one of these scruffy patched on my chin.” Ha! What an innocent fool I was as a child.

I’ve written about my potential career as the bearded lady in a circus before (Being the Bearded Lady at the Sideshow Might be Fun (Maybe?) and the connection between airplane bathrooms and chin hairs), but seeing this picture reminded me that my interest chin hair seems to have begun quite some time ago. How sad is it that I now pat my own damn chin that way, looking for stray hairs that need plucking, lest I reveal my status as a freak she-male to the world unintentionally? (As opposed to through these writings on chin hairs, where I intentionally alert people to my masculine afflictions.)

(Warning: this paragraph is full of cheesy puns.) I know that I am not the only one out there struggling to keep my chin up in the face of this assault on my feminine image. Many, many of my friends – all of us in our mid- to late 20s and 30s – who are obsessive chinnie chin chin pluckers. There’s a market that is ripe for the plucking (heh!) that, shockingly, the beauty industry has yet to exploit. Think about it: when’s the last time you saw an ad for laser hair removal for chin hair? Probably, uh, never. Sure, lasering off crotch, leg, and pit hair? Back and chest chair? Ads everywhere. You can’t open a damn magazine without some naked oiled body builder and airbrushed seductress leering at your figuratively hairy ass from the pages. “Oh, you may shave or even wax,” they smirk at you, “but our cootie and pit hairs will never grow back. Ever! Mwa ha ha ha.”

Yet the one place that it would truly be useful to get laser hair removal is my chin. I am 99.99% confident that female soul patches are never suddenly going to become stylish, but no model is showing off her hairless, oiled chin. Why is that? Damn beauty industry is so busy creating ridiculous insecurities in people (we are mammals, which by definition are warm blooded, produce milk, and have hair, although I often wonder about some people and warm blooded status) while ignoring the ones that would be useful to exploit. Fuckers.

And that does it for today’s look back at my childhood and tenuously related rant about why I hate society.

Watch Your Head: In the Dining Room

I love the utterly ridiculous chandelier in my parents' dining room. Not only is the ceiling way to low for such a pretentious item, but it is not centered in the room. Remember, I am slightly over five feet tall, and even I am at risk of beheading by that thing. I did really really love the chandelier as a kid, though. I thought it was extremely glamorous and I was impressed that it had flame-shaped light bulbs.

Other notable features of the dining room: The cereal collection on the chair in the corner. Below that chair, barely visible, is my mom's bag of bags. It is a huge plastic bag that contains plastic bags of varying size. (I am not mocking the bag of bags. I actually have several of them in my own apartment. I don't know why, but I am obsessed with finding just the exact size for an object when I need a bag. It drives me crazy to use a bag that is unnecessarily large.)

The china hutch next to the Chair of Cereal contains real china. I've also always loved their pattern. It's just classy and simple. (One wonders what it is doing at our house...) Oh, but it also contains a plastic plate my sister made as a kid. Plus lots of random glassware and hideous crystal candy dishes that my Bubbe foisted upon us. (With more to come, as she is soon moving and cleaning house. Oy vey.) Also, the top of the china hutch is stocked with office supplies and what appears to be some sort of paper bug crawling up the wall. I have no idea what the fuck that is.

The buffet is chock full of papers and gym shoes, like all buffets. No need to say more. And, folks, is the dining room at my folks house. Soon we shall visit the kitchen, a tiny preview of the wallpaper can be obtained from this picture by looking past the very bright blue folding door. (Cue scary music.)
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As an aside, the hat I am wearing in this picture is my third scary bear hat, although the ears are hidden by the chandelier. (The first died a sad death, the second was lost.) I am most displeased to report that I lost my third scary bear hat last Tuesday. It was last seen tied around my neck. When I got off the subway and reached back to put it on, there was nothing there. If you know any place to get Scary Bear Hat the 4th, I will gladly take any guidance.

Don't Even Bother

To the Person in India who googled how to make a home pussy:

Don't. Really. I promise it is not going to come out well, and people could get hurt in the process or after the fact. Nothing is as embarrassing as a homemade pussy accident.

Best of luck to you.

Your Friend,
Suzanne

This is How the World Will End

Last September, Husband went to a presentation from a venture capital group that was held at the Philadelphia Planetarium. For no good reason other than the meeting was being held at a planetarium, the key note speaker was an obscenely wealthy guy who was the third private citizen to go into space by paying the Russians a lot of money. Husband said that his presentation was mostly boring, but the highlight was his explanation of how people shit and piss in space, complete with pictures. It seems that astronauts’ doody ultimately winds up in some sort of sealed box, which is then ejected into space.

Now picture this: some sort of other life form in the universe finds a large box floating into its home. “How lovely,” it thinks. “Someone sent me a gift!” Upon opening the box, however, (and hopefully before sampling it, think it is chocolate, a favorite food of all life forms) the life form discovers that some asshole has in fact sent it a turd. It is embarrassed and repulsed, and feels rather degraded. It never mentions the incident to any of its kind.

If we are not careful, this could happen over and over again. And one day, the other life forms are going to get really pissed. They will trace the space poop back to earth, invade the planet, and kill us all, which I often think we deserve at the rate we are going, anyway.

Space littering is a bad idea.

New Relationships

Yesterday I was forcibly "migrated" to the upgraded version of Blogger. I am sort of excited about it, as there are some very helpful new features on this version (like when a comment is emailed to me, it tells me what post it appears in conjunction with; I can label my posts) but I also have heard some complaints about it. As with any new relationship, only time will tell whether we are meant for each other.

Speaking of new relationships, last night Husband and I joined an old NYU chum for dinner. As we reminisced about the people we knew, Chum reminded me of a particularly unsavory story. Husband's roommate for all three years that he lived in NYU housing was a scrawny, computer geek Italian Republican from Long Island who we shall call Frank. Frank was fairly moderate, but he did love saying highly offensive things to annoy people, and he was a genial misanthrope in general. (We did indeed have things in common despite our enormous political gulf, so generally we got along fine.)

Anyway, not long after Frank began dating a woman he had lusted after for years, he was sitting at the dinner table with his parents. "What color are her nipples?" his dad asked wolfishly. Frank was pissed at his dad's utterly disgusting and disturbing question, and did not answer.

The two morals of the story: Frank's dad is a disgusting creep. And until I heard that story, it never even occurred to me that nipples came in such a rainbow of colors that one might speculate about the hue of another. (I guess I don't consume enough porn.) So even leering perverts might teach you something new.

Is It Just Me...

...or do I not live at Suite 1800, New York, CA 94111? As far as I know, no one lives there, so why my fucking former employer decided to use this address on my W-2 is beyond me. And people wonder why I quit.

Roller Skating Queen

When we were kids, Sister and I used to roller skate all the time in our basement. (Making the downstairs bathroom very useful; we didn’t even need to take our skates off if we had to go! And this picture, incidentally, is a peak at my bedroom at my folks' house.) Around the time I was 10 or 11, I bought some new skates. I thought I would be very practical by buying a pair that were several sizes too big for me so that I could grow into them and never need to buy skates again. This was my clever plan to save money. Unfortunately, I grossly misjudged how big my feet would get, and never even came close to fitting into them properly.

The good news is that Sister outgrew her skates, and when she took a pair of skates from my parents’ basement, where they were stored with a random assortment of other rejected childhood items, back with her to Iowa, her skates were too small, but my old skates fit her perfectly. I decided that I should take her skates. It turns out they are a little large. I am fairly convinced that my feet have actually shrunk in the past few years.

Anyway, after putting one skate in my bag and the other in Husband’s so that the weight would not be overwhelming, I was excited to begin skating in NYC. Except that it is fucking freezing here right now. Sure, I tried to skate a bit in my apartment, but it is really too filled with furniture to get a good roll on. The lobby worked a bit better, but out of fear of being yelled at, I only did a quick loop around it.

Oh spring. Please get here soon.

When Do Gooding Goes Bad

If you want to read a scathing indictment of the breast cancer fundraising festivities that took place this past October, I wrote Breast Cancer for Fun and Profit for The Panelist. There's lots of other good articles on do gooding over there as well. Check it out.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, just use the downstairs bathroom

Welcome back to Casa de Padres de Suzanne! For Part 2 of the tour of this fine piece of real estate, we shall visit the bathroom in the basement.Beginning with what actually belongs in a bathroom, please direct your gaze to the right-hand side of the photo. Isn’t the toilet a lovely shade of peach? I know that the beige lid doesn’t match. Heck, it isn’t even the correct size. (It’s a smidge too large.) After the old one cracked, Sister’s Husband tried to buy a new seat at the flea, but the toilet seat dealer insisted that peach colored seats have not been available for years now. He did the best he could. At least the toilet usually flushes.

I’m not sure what the ginormous red bucket is for, but I suspect it is for when the ceiling leaks. Perhaps my parents would be kind enough to explain its function in the comments section, despite what I believe will be their extreme displeasure with this tour.

Moving the left, up against the wall is a snack table on wheels. I hope it is not down there so that people can enjoy a nice meal while they do their business. On the other hand, I hope it is not brought out of the bathroom to serve food to unsuspecting visitors in other rooms. Ever.

To the front of the snack tray and to the left are two partially broken lawn chairs. Obviously. Everyone stores their lawn furniture in their large second bathroom. I don’t even know why I am pointing it out.

The tool boxes are in front of the lawn chairs. If you are ever in the middle of a shit and need the peen of a hammer to pry it out, you are in luck! If you ever need a hammer while someone is in the bathroom taking a crap, you are literally up shit’s creek. Hopefully, the project can wait. (Perhaps this is why a nail was never driven into the living room wall so that Dennis Franz could be properly framed and hung?)

Another worthwhile object (Husband’s favorite) in the tool bucket is the hedge clipper. Now you know where to go to trim your bushes! (Ha ha ha ha!) Another one of Husband’s interests is the random outdoor lamp that is sitting just behind the enormous broom. And is that another snack table that the tool boxes are pinning to the wall all the way to the left? Why yes, I believe it is. Delicious!

Thanks for joining me on the tour of my parents’ downstairs bathroom. It has many things that a person might need to survive a disaster. Or at least bust out of the room after reclining on lawn chairs and dining off the snack trays. I'm sure that you cannot wait to visit someday!

Beware the Sneaky Tattoo

Husband sent me this important news article:

A Buenos Aires tattooist, who is also a River Plate fan, is being sued for etching a penis on the back of teenager who requested the Boca Juniors logo, according to UPI.

"I could not see what he was tattooing because he didn't have a mirror. I only saw it when I got home and showed it to my parents," said the victim.

A police spokesperson said: "The tattooist supports Boca Junior's rival, River Plate, so he got annoyed when the teenager asked him to tattoo Boca's symbol and decided to tattoo a penis instead."

Husband's conclusion? "One more reason not to support Boca Juniors or to get a tattoo." I don't agree with the tattoo part, as I think that tattoos are really cool, but when I get my tattoo on my 70th birthday that says "Who are you judging, you judgmental motherfucker?," I will certainly be careful to make sure that I don't get a penis on my back instead. Although right now for a variety of reasons I am in a pissy enough mood that I can empathize.

My Latest Career Development Move

Earlier this month, I decided that I need a bit more structure to my pursuit of writing, and perused craigslist.org looking for some writing gigs. Giddiness ensued with this gem:

Hips and Curves.com is looking for copywriters!

Product descriptions – We need 75 – 150 word product descriptions, that don’t read like product descriptions. We want entertaining - smart, funny, visceral and sensual. Whatever your style is. Send 1-3 samples of copy you’ve written from any products on our site. You don’t have to copy our style. Show us your own unique voice.

Please send your writing samples and a little bit of info about yourself, in the body of an email. We can’t open attachments.

Oh, how much fun could I have with this? Lots and lots, if I could manage to say nice things about the products. Which was hard because my usual tendency is to mock the fuck out of ludicrous lingerie, not praise it. (Sort of like in Julius Caesar when Antony - I think - says that he comes not to bury Caesar, but praise him; it's called lying.) I mean, my initial reaction to this outfit: is "Direct from Abu Ghraib Prison, a bizzare torture device that humiliates and mocks all the is good in life." or "Nothing says 'alien sex' like this space suit."

Still, I think I have it in me to be creative and say nice things. So I sent an application email, as requested:

Dear Sir or Madam:

After working almost 10 years in the nonprofit world, I am seeking positions that utilize my creativity and writing skills in a different way. Writing freelance product descriptions for hipsandcurves.com seems like an extremely exciting and fun opportunity for me.

For years, I have been an advocate of women’s sexuality and a foe of “sizism” that tries to shame larger women into hiding their bodies. It is obvious that women who are confident in their abilities and comfortable in their own skin are sexy no matter what their size. There is nothing that annoys me more than the stick-figure waifs with plastic breasts who appear in other lingerie catalogues.

I look forward to discussing this exciting freelance opportunity with you. Please find my three sample product descriptions below...

Sincerely,
Suzanne Reisman

Samples:
Bridal G-String with Train

Here comes the bride! While the wedding guests might admire the blushing bride’s beautiful face under her veil during the ceremony, this sexy-but-innocent plus size g-string highlights a different set of cheeks for the groom to appreciate. It comes complete with a sweet sating bow and sheer veil in the back, and a sparkly appliqué in the front. A guaranteed husband pleaser, relive the happiest night of a woman’s life by wearing it again and again! Add to the allure with a pair of white lace top stay up stockings or opera length stretch gloves. G-string available in size XXL, which best fits 1X - 3X.

Leather Biker Cap

Vroom vroom! Rev engines with this hot leather biker cap, and rope in your bad boy with the sexy chain dangling over the brim. This cap is a must to complete any biker chick outfit. You can’t rule the open road without it.

Hot Pink Patent Corset

Electrify any room when you strut your stuff in this super sexy plus size patent corset. Nothing sizzles more than its hot pink and black panels and lace-up back. Light inner boning supports your bust and creates unforgettable cleavage. Class it up with a satin pop-up hat or keep it kinky with a vinyl ruffled mini skirt. Either way, the matching hot pink g-string and detachable garters will definitely melt your man’s eyes and set his loins on fire.

I thought I did a very good job (I didn't even make a crack -heh heh- about the waxed snatch requirements of these getups!), but unfortunately, I got a passive agressive rejection (i.e. - "Thanks for applying! You are a great writer! We'll be collecting writing samples over the nexxt few weeks and then calling only those we are interested in. Good luck with your writing career!") So much for achieving your dream.

Reason #6,547 that I Love "Entertainment Weekly" and a Great Waxing Parable

In the January 19 issue, Alynda Wheat recaps MTV's trainwreck show My Super Sweet 16 (a show that I love watching while I work out because the obnoxious little bitches get my blood pumping even harder) as:

Season 4? Like anorexia, Paris Hilton, and Brazillian waxes, this was supposed to be a cautionary tale, not a cultural phenomenon.

(Emphasis mine.) The insight of Wheat never fails to stir my soul.

On another Brazilian angle, you must read this hilarious story, How To Achieve Stream-of-Consciousness Profanity over at Losing True, complete with a comparison to The 40 Year Old Virgin and an extremely witty comment. I suspect that LT would agree with Alynda that this is a cautionary tale. But a very funny one.

Jazz vs. Jizz

As I mentioned at various times, the most recent being yesterday, jizz is one of my favorite words. I realized that jazz has many of the same delightful qualities that so please me. Let's compare:

Jizz	Jazz
Two zs!!!	Two zs!!!
Thanks to j and double z combo, pleasing to say aloud.	Thanks to j and double z combo, pleasing to say aloud.
Especially when inappropriate.	Not inappropriate
If accepted in Scrabble, worth a jillion points.	Accepted in Scrabble and worth a jillion points

The Scrabble benefit is pretty damn good for jazz, although the shock value of screaming jizz is more valuable. It looks like a tie. We’ll have to go to the adjective form as a tie breaker. Jazzy is something cool, whereas jizzy is just gross.

You know which word I like better.

34 Years of Legal Abortion: Blog for Choice Day

I hope that I will never need to face the agonizing choices presented by an unplanned pregnancy. In the worst case scenario, however, as a woman with access to resources, I will always have more options than the average woman. Despite Roe v. Wade, which supposedly made abortion a safe, legal option for all American women, it is no more a reality for many than it was 34 years ago today. This makes me sad and frustrated.

On Christmas Day, I wrote a post titled Christmas is About Reproductive Rights. To me, the story of the Annunciation is a story about a woman’s right to decide her own fate. Mary happened to agree to become pregnant. God didn’t force her to bear a child against her will. I posted a milder version of my interpretation of the story over at BlogHer, where it inspired a reader to blog about it on her own site. I am glad she did because I think she brought up many typical arguments from the other side, which I call the forced childbirth movement, a term coined by Lisa Jervis of Bitch magazine.

The main argument that gets my goat is that life begins when a sperm and egg unite. Yes, something does begin at the point, but it is hardly a “life” that has equal rights to mine as a human being. At this point, it is scientifically referred to as a zygote. A zygote is not a person. It is not even close to a baby. Assuming that it does not miscarry (i.e. – abort itself) on its own, which happens in approximately 15% of pregnancies, although possibly more because sometimes women don’t even know they were pregnant and miscarried in the first place.

If there is no miscarriage, according to Wikipedia, “the development of the zygote into an embryo proceeds through specific recognizable stages of blastula, gastrula, and organogenesis. The blastula stage typically features a fluid-filled cavity, the blastocoel, surrounded by a sphere or sheet of cells, also called blastomeres.” I am sorry, but this is still not a human being. It is something that is turning into a person and one day might be one assuming that there is no miscarriage. At the end of the 8th week, fetal development begins.

Again, according to my sources at Wikipedia:

The first trimester period carries the highest risk of miscarriage (natural death of embryo or fetus). During the second trimester the development of the fetus can start to be monitored and diagnosed. The third trimester marks the beginning of viability, or the ability of the fetus to survive, with or without medical help, outside of the mother's womb.

Now, my friends at the nonpartisan research institute the Alan Guttmacher Institute have real research, unlike the forced childbirth movement, which likes to make shit up. AGI notes, "In the United States, nearly nine in 10 abortions occur in the first 12 weeks of pregnancy and 56% occur in the first eight weeks." In fact, until the 1870s, the Catholic Church had no problem with abortion until the "quickening," which is around the fifth month of pregnancy.

Maybe – maybe – you can argue with me that outside of the first trimester, as fetal development gets underway, that this is a person with some rights. But it is still something that is growing within a woman that will affect her life forever. Pregnancy is not easy nor is it pretty. It is not something that just sort of happens for nine months with no effects on someone at all. At its best, pregnant women resemble the glowing angel of the motherhood myth. In reality, they are can suffer from minor symptoms like nausea, incontinence, back pain, back pain (which might never fully go away, impacting her ability to work) to life-threatening ones like gestational diabetes and pre-eclampsia. Birth itself can injure a woman for the rest of her life. Following birth, post-partum depression is a scary ailment. Anyone who has suffered from this knows it strikes viciously and unexpectedly with severe consequences. My friend Alex told me that being pregnant with her first child – a child she very much wanted – made her more supportive of the right to abortion than ever. She said she could not imagine going through a pregnancy when she didn’t want to be pregnant.

Women are people already. We have the right to decide if we want to undergo these risks or not. No one has the right to impose these risks on an unwilling woman. It is nice for you if your religion says that life begins at conception. Your religion is not the law, nor should it be. Your religion does not grant a zygote more rights to life than a living woman has. As a woman, I have a life. There are no debates about whether I am alive or not. As such, my rights always supersede the rights your religion grants a fetus. At the end of the day, women will always decide for themselves whether or not to carry a pregnancy to term. The only difference is whether we have the legal right to a safe medical procedure or whether we need to seek out potentially life-threatening illegal abortions. AGI reports that 13% of pregnancy-related deaths worldwide are from unsafe abortions. These unnecessary deaths are undisputable blood on someone’s hands, and those hands belong to the forced childbirth movement.

==============================

Today I also have an article in Metro New York on the persistent lack of access to safe, affordable legal abortions in the US in the 34 years since Roe. Check it out. If you don't like it, please send them a nasty letter so that they print it and I can make fun of you. If you do agree with me, send them a letter so that they don't just get angry letters calling me a baby killer. And if it inspires you to action, check out the Haven Coalition website. We can always use more hosts or donations.

A CUSS Service Announcement: Protect Your Precious Snatch ASAP

Thanks to Plain Jane Mom, I know now all about the Bikini Line Genie. Yes, this miracle product from a company billing itself as Empowered Women Products (because shaving your pootie without fear of slicing off your clit is so empowering!) will change your life. Don’t believe me? Why, just read this quote from Wendy Chapin, female inventor extraordinaire:

At Last An Easy And Simple Way To Attract ALL Seductive Eyes On Your Beautiful Body and Show Off Your Sexy Shape With Safe Hair Removal And Personal Body Protection During Tanning, Waxing, Grooming, Or Any Other Type Of Personal Hygiene Care In Less Than 7 Minutes At A Rock-Bottom Price... Guaranteed Or Your Money Back!

Whew! I am so excited that a product that will help me “Attract ALL Seductive Eyes” to my fucking crotch is finally available! Nothing made me more depressed in the past than not attracting all seductive eyes to my box. And it’s a good thing that this only attracts all seductive eyes, not those regular eyes. That’s just nasty when regular eyes ogle my cooter. Seriously! I feel so empowered!

Just in case you are somehow not convinced that this product empowers women, the website provides a testimonial from a doctor - that’s right, Dr. Phil Sheridan, PhD, technical director of Lendell Manufacturing, says:

Finally!!! A product that is specifically designed to be used in a woman's personal care! The Bikini Line Genie is the answer to protect a woman's features for those women who choose to groom in their own personal style… The Bikini Line Genie allows for worry-free protection ANY time when worn. Bikini Line Genie can be worn with no fear of embarrassment.

Oh my lord! Did this technical director just call my nether regions “a woman’s features?” How…. Technical! He seems so qualified to be giving advice on vaginal/vulva care, what with his PhD in some subject that makes him a technical expert on manufacturing and all. More important, he understands how embarrassing it can be to wear vaginal protection while grooming in our personal style, and I feel so reassured that I need not be embarrassed to protect my poonanie with the product he is hawking.

Sure, Wendy Chapin, a woman who understands the dilemma posed by risk of injury while shaving or dying your hidden curlies, and Dr. Phil Sheridan, PhD, technical director of manufacturing, are convincing. In fact, you probably aren’t even reading this any more because you clicked on the link to Bikini Line Genie and are buying it this very second to fill that hole in your life (or should I say cover?), but just in case you are still not convinced, there’s an even more pressing reason to buy Bikini Line Genie: modesty. Yes, this handy little product will protect your modesty when you go to the salon for your Brazilian wax. I have no idea how because if you use it, you can’t possibly be getting a Brazilian wax but not one, but two (two!) testimonials from waxers say this is true.

Bikini Line Genie seems to bring a certain comfort ability to Brazilian waxing with the more modest of clients. – Jacki Davis, Anew U beauty Therapy

It allows the client protection and a form of coverage as some clients are very modest. – Teddy Vaquera, Teddy’s Facial Therapies: A journey for the mind and spirit

Yes, preservation of modesty! What an important, essential benefit in such a crass and crude society. And yet, the Bikini Line Genie will help attract ALL Seductive Eyes to your most modest features…

Anyway, thanks again to Plain Jane Mom for the tip. Now that I know about Wendy, Dr. Phil Sheridan, and the miracles of the Bikini Line Genie, my life will never be the same. It’s much funnier.

Celebrating, Suzanne-Style, Part II

It seems that I already wrote about celebrating Suzanne-style at some point (I suspect it was about drinking a lot of Diet Coke). I decided that I needed more structure and guidance in my year of writing and this afternoon I scored myself a writing internship, so I am very excited about that. I also sent off another personal essay that I have been working on since December (about being an inexperience sex columnist), so hopefully that will get printed. And Monday I should have another piece in the "My View" column in Metro New York.

Thus, I am taking the afternoon off to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes that I rarely take time for: cross-stitch. Seriously. Of course, I usually miscount the stitches at some point or do a row of the wrong color and fuck my craft up a bit, but whatever. The highlight of my cross-stitching talents was the Last Supper cross-stitch that I made for Steph a few years ago. I missed a row and so Jesus's head was a tad misshapen, but otherwise, I am very proud of it. One day when I get good at it, I hope to make my own patterns. They will say things like, "Home is Where the Sex Is" or "Eat Me, Asshole" with cute little animals in the background. Perhaps I could even do the CUSS logo...

Unlike knitting, cross-stitch is still only done by little old ladies. (The kind without tattoos.) Who says that I am not demure and lady-like?

That Just About Sums It Up for Me

"I thought you should know there is a Louis Vuitton store at 2901 WEST BIG BEAVER ROAD in Troy, MI." - Des

Soup Outrage

Today I went to a small consulting job. While on my lunch break, I walked over to what used to be one of my favorite quirky New York-y restaurants. It is called Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop and until recently when they added a new eating area in the back, it hadn't changed since 1929. The place is so narrow that it only had room for the lunch counter and three tables for two on the other side of the wall before the back room materialized out of nowhere. It also has kick ass chicken salad sandwiches - just lots of moist, big chicken pieces, mayo, and a few celery chunks. (In addition to the chicken salad, it is known for its tuna, matzo ball soup, and chocolate egg creams.) Yum.

I sat at the counter and ordered a cup of vegetable soup to go with my sandwich. The short order cook/waiter told me that a bowl is the same price, so he would give me a bowl. Why not? I shrugged. The more veggies, the better. Imagine my surprise when the bowl arrived and the soup looked strangely familiar. Like with little noodles in it shaped like letters and a high potato chunk count in a viscus red broth. Um, yes. It was fucking Campbell's Soup!!!! Never have I been to a restaurant before and so blatantly been served fucking canned soup. I ate it anyway, and it was fine.

When the bill arrived, however, all was not fine. They charged me THREE DOLLARS for a small bowl of fucking Campbell's Soup!!! Damn, I was PISSED. And that was before I even noticed that my can of Diet Coke ran me $1.95!!!! (My modest sandwich was even $6.75, which was quite the steep price increase since I was last there, but possibly worth it.) God damn, that place has fucking balls. Balls!

We're Half Way There

As I mention today over at People Under the Stairmasters, I learned something important this weekend: my iPod contains no Bon Jovi. It's funny how you never knew you were missing something in your life until Living on a Prayer comes on the car radio.

Sticks and Stones

Once in a while, I am surprised by the lack of personal attacks I get from anonymous commenters at CUSS. Of course, I don’t get many visitors, and about half are looking for porn and go away quickly without reading anything when they don’t get the pictures of “jewish pussy” or whatever else they seek. Thus my surprise to find the following (anonymous, of course) comment on Monday’s post called Igloos and Beavers:

You are really crass. I picture you as a chubby, homely, dark-haired foulmouth with no class or ladylike qualities. Grow up and get over your beaver already!

Yes, I am indeed rude and crude, and damn proud of it! Quite frankly, I find “ladylike qualities” to be highly overrated. Traditionally, “ladylike qualities” involved sitting around quietly, having no opinions, and looking pretty. Why the fuck would I want this? It seems boring and not fun at all.

Clearly, I am foul-mouthed. Whoop-de-doo. A lot of people assume that outspoken women are “chubby” and “homely.” A lot of people, however, are idiots, so this isn’t surprising. I am just rolling my fat eye in my hideous face, chuckling. I do find it intriguing, however, that being foul-mouthed is associated with being “dark-haired.” Doesn’t that sound a bit odd, even sort of racist or anti-Semitic? Seriously, are light-haired women somehow more ladylike? How fucked is that?

Classy people always spend their time chiding others and insulting their appearance anonymously, don’t they? (I always wish that these folks would mention how they came to be at my blog in the first place. Don’t you imagine it being something like, “I was googling those Victoria’s Secret undies with the little hole cut out in the back for easy anal access, and I found your offensive blog.”) I guess it’s why I lack such a fine quality. Well, so be it. I’m certainly not going to lose my much needed beauty sleep over it. Good night.

Calling all Pro-Choice Bloggers!

Monday is the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade and NARAL is arranging Blog for Choice Day. If you want to write about what legal abortion means to you on Jan. 22, click on the link to sign up and your blog will be linked on their site as a participant. They also provide the code to copy and paste in your post for the cool graphic that I otherwise could not have posted in this to get your attention, as I suck when it comes to coding.

At any rate, I'll definitely be blogging for abortion access on Jan. 22 and thus far it also looks like I'll have a little article coming out that day in a local newspaper about 34 years of legal abortion and the persistent lack of access many women face. Assuming the article does happen, more info will follow.

A Plan for the Future

If I make it to my 70th birthday, I think I shall celebrate by getting a tattoo that says, “Who are you judging, you judgmental motherfucker?” I assume this would be on my back, which is the largest canvas I can provide for such thought-provoking art, although it would be awesome if it could fit on my upper arm. I’ll wait until I am 70 because one of the many things preventing me from getting any tattoos at this stage of my life is fear of distortion as my body changes and skin stretches. By 70, it’ll hopefully have gone through enough changes that it should be safe. Or I won’t see well enough to tell the difference.

Plus, everyone loves feisty little elderly women. (Think Sophia Petrillo.) Tattoos that say “motherfucker” are just rude and obnoxious on the young, and pathetic and sad on the middle aged, but heeeelarious of aged flesh. If we lose touch, check back with me in 39 years to see if I grew the balls to implement my brilliant plan.

Mazel Tov and Ouch!

My dear friend Mara had a kid on Friday! I am so happy for her. My friend Sara and I are most excited to visit her and husband and baby in London at the end of February. We hope to bring companionship and amusing distractions to her, as well as basic American goods that she has been requesting.

That was the mazel tov (congrats in Hebrew). This is the ouch! - the baby was 9 lbs. 13 oz. Fortunately, both mom and baby are doing well as of this writing. :)

Another friend of mine had a kid at 4:30 this morning, so I am also happy for them, too. There was much less ouch involved, as her kid was only 8 lbs. 5 oz.

See what happens when I go out of town for a weekend?

Harbinger

Saturday night when we took Bubbe out to dinner, she told us about one of her favorite TV shows, Everybody Loves Raymond. (Incidentally, I hate that show. Is Ray Romano not the most fucking annoying "character"? Also, Patricia Heaton is an idiot in real life, which I can't get over.) Anyway, Bubbe loves this show.

"The brothers! They are so funny!" she exclaimed repeatedly. "And their mother is so nice. Everyone should have a mother like this."

I think you now know everything you need to know to fully understand my Bubbe.

Igloos and Beavers

So last week it was in the 60s in Chicago. Today it is snowing. Tomorrow the high will be 15 degrees F. I guess the Bush administration will seize upon this return to normality as proof that there is no global warming. They have short attention spans and memories.*

Incidentally, one of the things I hate about global warming is that some would use it as a call to the cause of non-stop shaving. I mean, who needs body hair to help retain body heat if it is never cold? This is a chilling future for lovable fuzzy beavers and furry pussies. Where's PETA when it really matters?!?! Save the beavers, dammit!


*I did not see An Inconvenient Truth, but I think I read somewhere that global warming actually causes extreme weather. These unhealthy, sudden switches from unseasonable warmth to "normal" nasty cold seem to mark that in my mind.

Unexpected Adventure Was Had

Sadly, there was no opportunity for the Grannies to spar earlier tonight, as Granny called and canceled because her stomach was bothering her. (She has diverticulosis.) Sister, Sister's Husband, Husband, and I picked up Bubbe and had a strangely uneventful meal. She didn't even use any racial slurs. It was very pleasant.

After dinner, Sister decided that she needed to stop off in Bubbe's apartment to take a dump before we went on to another activity. It is a damn good thing she had gas, as that is how we discovered the other gas problem. When I walked into her apartment, I swore I smelled gas. The closer I got to the kitchen, the worse it was. "Um, does anyone else smell gas?" I asked nervously.

"Oh, people have been telling me they smell gas when they come over, but I don't smell anything," Bubbe said. "Don't worry. My oven doesn't work though."

However, the other "kids" agreed that we should worry. Over the strenuous objections of Bubbe ("But my window is always open. It's fine. I don't want the sirens attracting attention. Here, let me turn the stove on. See? It works."), I called the nonemergency number for the fire department, and the operator sent over a few guys.

As we watched the truck unload from our window perch, Husband started cracking up. "I love the giant walrus mustache on the fat guy," he commented. And lo and behold, a few minutes later one of the characters from the old Saturday Night Live "Super Fans" burst into the apartment. (OK, "burst" implies that he moved quickly, which I am not sure was possible for this particular firefighter, but still.) Trailing him were two nebbishy, nervous guys, one in charge of a flashlight, the other a wrench.

After banging around for a few minutes with Bubbe interfering every few seconds to tell them how it was, they finally turned off the gas and stomped out, telling her to tell her landlord that she needs a new stove. We hung around a while more, Husband and Sister's Husband looking at Bubbe's Photo Shrine to Her Family, which makes my mother's photo Shrine to Her Family look piddling (pictures to follow upon my return to NY), mocking Sister and I for our various hideous poses and awful fashions.

When we finally left, I had a splitting headache, which I am sure was from the fumes - although several of us had our own leaking gas issues, so I am not sure which fumes. At any rate, it was not the evening I expected, but definitely full of excitement.

Here Comes Trouble...

The four of us "kids" (Sister, Sister's Husband, Husband, and me) are taking the grandmothers out for dinner tonight.

Let the sparks and foul language fly.

Big Change at the Family Compound!

As my dad drove me home from the airport this afternoon, he earnestly explained that their AOL account is no more because he made other "arrangements."

Dad: See, just turn the computer on and click on that thing...
Me: Internet Explorer?
Dad: Yes! That! And it will go right to the MSM homepage! We have DSL now!
Me: Oh, that's exciting!
Dad: It is so much faster, you won't believe it! But you can't use your portable with it because there'd no special firewall set up.

Isn't that cute? I admit to being somewhat puzzled as to how I was supposed to link my laptop to his DSL connection regardless of secutiry issues, but whatever. This evening I took a closer look at the equipment that was set up to bring the miracle of hi speed internet connectivity into our humble abode. Yeah, it's wi-fi.

I think that just makes the conversation cuter, don't you?

Homecoming Tour: Part I

This morning I am heading back to Chicago again for a small 60th birthday celebration for my mom. Since this is the second time in less than a month that I will be at the homestead, I thought people might like a glimpse into my family’s glamorous Jewish white trash lifestyle. Today’s tour is of the living room. Some faces have been blocked out because otherwise they might be really mad at me.*
Normal families hang framed art on their walls. Mine decorates more eclectically. Let’s start with the fine portrait on the far left. This has been hanging since my sister and I posed for it 25 years ago. I didn’t bother to censor it since, hey, we don’t look like that any more.

Moving to the right and slightly down is the Shrine to Her Family that my mother maintains assiduously. I can guarantee that my family will never have a flat panel TV because where would my mom put the Shrine? Note that it contains an ungodly amount of wedding photos. Sister looks so elegant, even with a giant black bar over part of her face. I look like doofy old me, even if a fancy dress and veil. If you’ve ever wondered what the Dueling Grandmothers look like, in the picture in the center that is reflecting the flash, you can almost see Bubbe (in the bluish purple dress next to me) and Granny (in the yellow dress at the left end of that picture). They look sweet and innocent, don’t they? Don’t be fooled! Our family specializes in this sort of deception.

Just above the large framed wedding picture of Sister and Sister’s Husband, you will find an unusual object d’art. Not many families display the heart shaped unicorn plaques made by their eldest daughter when she was in junior high, but my family’s pride in their children’s art is forever. I made it at the Snoop Shop, which was a place where kids could paint and glaze various sculptures. I actually have a number of fine objects from there over the years, but in my bedroom where they belong. Why on earth this was hung in the living room in the first place is beyond me.

Above the stunning art is my dad’s CPA certification, hung in a cheap frame. Again, why this is in the living room as opposed to say, his desk, is a mystery to me. But I do think it adds to the charm of the overall scene, don’t you? It reminds people that despite all appearances to the contrary, a professional resides there.

Finally, and most important, to the right of the CPA certificate and my art is our treasured photograph with Dennis Franz, former star of Hill Street Blues and NYPD Blue. And of, course, the classic Hill St. spin off, Beverly Hill Buntz. What!?!?! You’ve never heard of this fine series?!?! What an outrage.

In the summer of 1987 (I think), my family journeyed to California for vacation. This was HUGE for us and we had a lot of fun. While we were walking down the street in Beverly Hills one day, we noticed a television shoot was being set up. Suddenly, a van pulled up to the curb right next to where we were standing and who should jump out but Dennis Franz himself! My mom and I were big Hills St. fans, so we were beside ourselves with excitement. We started chatting him up, and he was very, very nice. He was also from Chicago, so we discussed the superiority of Chicago hot dogs over other wieners. He agreed to pose for a picture with us. My dad whipped out the disc (remember those?) camera we purchased for the trip, and this is the result.

Here's the close up. I don’t think it is necessary to point out that the people in the picture are not in the center, or that my mom’s head is partly chopped off. I will compliment my exciting clip-on sunglasses. Those things were seriously bitchin’! This picture has been taped to that spot on our wall since it was developed in 1987 except when my mom recently brought it to work to show her co-workers. I think I put it there. No need for a frame or anything, right? I just slapped it up with some masking tape loops that I carefully put on the back. When my mom took it down a few months ago, she decided to replace it exactly as it had been. She even if she didn’t want to (banish the thought!), she had no choice: the wall had faded around it, so there was a bright blue rectangle on the wall when she temporarily removed it for show-and-tell.

This brings my brief tour of the living room to a close. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I promise more touring excitement in the future, including the other side of the room, which has a lovely rust colored couch and blue chenille rocker.

*Not that certain parental figures won’t be anyway after they see this. It’s not that we never have guests or anything, so I see nothing to be ashamed of. I think it is hilarious though, and I am proud of my background.

Can You Keep a Secret? I've Got Magic Creme!

For the holidays, Des's company management re-gifted swag that they received to the peon employees. This actually made me feel slightly better about my former employer. Sure, they refuse to promote you until you've already been doing the work of the higher level for at least a year,* but they never re-gifted shit.

Anyway, Des thought the free cosmetics were old lady bland, thus they sounded perfect for me and she re-re-gifted them to me. The case included a guide called "Your Gift." The guide explained the products that were in the gift. I was about to throw some of it away until I read the following description:

Re-Nutriv
Ultimate Lifting Creme
Endow your skin with amazing powers. This remarkable crème combines the very latest anti-aging technology with precious ingredients to bring you instant gratification plus measurable, long-term effects. Apply AM/PM, after cleansing, to look younger, radiant and lifted.

Amazing powers?!?! Precious ingredients?!?! Instant gratification? How exciting! You know what this means: experiment time!

After washing up in my post-workout shower, I had Husband photograph me. Then I smeared on the Utlimate Lifting Creme and had him take another picture. The results:

Before	After

HOLY SHIT!!!! That stuff truly has amazing powers! Including time travel, it seems, to make you younger. Good thing I didn’t apply more or I might have been reduced to 23 chromosomes in my mother’s ovary.** Keep this potential WMD (weapon of mass displacement) away from the Bush administration, that's all I can say.

*Or they like you or you happen to be in the right place at the right time even if you are not qualified. Whatever.
**OK, OK. It really made me look no different than before. Although it smelled nice and I kind of wanted to eat it.

It's Never Too Late to Say Hi

I just learned from Queen Bad Mama that it is National De-Lurking Week. I realize that it is Thursday, and the week is almost over, but it is not over yet! That means that all of you who are reading CUSS and never saying anything still have time to leave words of wisdom! All two of you who are not here for a whopping 3 seconds before you realize that CUSS is not going to answer your deperate and pathetic prayers for "jewish pussy" or "pubic hair showing in low rise jeans."

On the other hand, I can totally understand why anyone who regularly reads this blog might not want to admit to doing so. I appreciate your visits regardless. And later today I shall reward the faithful by introducing a magic product that Des unwittingly gave me. I know I am giggling with anticipation! (If you are too, why don't you say so? It's the perfect chance to de-lurk.)

Happy 31st Birthday, Alex!

I've known Alex since we were young lasses in high school. We had many misadventures together, and I am glad that she is still one of my closest pals. Also, she has a seriously hillllarious blog over at Formula Fed & Flexible Parenting. Check it out and wish her a happy birthday after you stop rolling on the floor with laughter. The lady deserves it.

Six (Non-Proof-Read) Weird Things about Suzanne

I've been tagged by Age is all in the mind. In my year+ of blogging, no one has ever tagged me before. I am very honored. *Swoon.*

THE RULES (which I copied directly from DeeJay): Each player of this game starts with the "six weird things about you" blog post. People who get tagged need to write their own six weird things post and state the rules clearly. At the end of the post tag six more people and don’t forget to leave a comment on their blog to tell them they have been tagged and tell them to read your blog.)

Six Weird Things about Me (many of which have already been revealed over time)

1. I am a genetic mutant. Sure that seems obvious to anyone who has read anything here. But I really mean it. I don’t have a full set of adult teeth. No second molars ever developed on my lower jaw, which caused my upper second molars to continue growing and growing and growing, until they were many times the size of normal molars and tore up my gums where teeth should have been. Thus I had the upper molars removed. That’s when the periodontist (who did work on most of the Seinfeld cast, incidentally) discovered that instead of wisdom teeth, I had regular teeth developing all the way in the back of my top jaw. Craziness.

2. I am 31 years old and married and still sleep with my bear companion (and aspiring but neglected model), Theo. (Maybe this is less weird than sad and pathetic, but he is very comfy, dammit!)

3. I am fascinated by scars, bruises, and what my internal organs look like.

4. Jizz is one of my favorite words. So few words even have one in them, and yet jizz has not one z, but two! Two zs!!! Plus, the combination of the letter j and double – double! - z is oddly irresistible. It just is pleasing to say aloud. Especially when inappropriate. And, in Scrabble, the word can rack up a jillion points if you can get the other players to accept it. Each z is worth 10 points, and the j is eight. Throw that on a triple word score, and you will scorch the other players! Really, what is not to love about the word jizz?

5. Despite all of the semi-revealing and insane things that I share on my blog and in person, I am sort of shy. It is really hard for me to deal with large groups when I don’t know anyone. Networking? Utter failure. Conferences? I wind up standing alone in the corner eating large quantities of cheese and oozing nervous discomfort.

6. I hate standing out. Not always, but if I go to a wedding or conference or something else along those lines involving a gathering of strangers, it upsets me to no end if I am over- or under-dressed for the occasion. I don’t know why this is, especially since I used to dress like a freak when I was younger and somehow never noticed the hordes of people staring at me while my family cowered in shame. You are supposed to get more confident and comfortable with yourself as you age. This is exactly the opposite for me.

OK, now you know a bit more about little old me. (The list could go on forever.) Wasn’t that fun? I thought it was. Seriously! I am supposed to tag six people, but I am not going to fully follow the rules. I am tagging anyone who reads this post, but only if they want to write on this topic. There you have it.

Come One, Come All!

If you are in New York (or will be on Thursday night), and support the slaughter of innocent unborn children as strongly I do, I hereby invite you to an exciting event at NARAL NY. I’ll be speaking on a panel about how lack of access to abortion (89% of counties in the US do not have any abortion services available) forces women into either more expensive, later procedures or very dangerous situations. Having a legal right to something is utterly useless if one can’t actually take action on it.

I’m sure I’ll want to grab a bite afterward because nothing works up an appetite like talking about the right to kill babies. I think it has to do with my Jewish heritage. It is common knowledge in some communities that the blood of Christian babies is a key ingredient in matzos. Thus thinking about abortion clearly triggers a link in my head to traditional Jewish cooking, which obviously makes me hungry.*

Regardless of my need for specialty foods, I hope to see you there.

*Forget that I actually immensely dislike matzos or actual murder. It is of no consequence to my point here.

Get Your Mean On

So I accomplished pretty much nothing thus far today. In my search for a low carb crock pot cook book,* I did verify that it seems impossible to follow a low carb diet that is also low in fat. This is a wee problem (unless you are near me when I have gas, then it is a very large and unfortunate problem) because my mysterious digestive ailment requires me to restrict my fat intake. I suppose the solution to all this is to eat salad for the rest of my miserable, cupcake-loving life. Although even some fruits and veggies are restricted in low carb diets. Insanity, I tell you.

Another thing that I did that does not count as accomplishing anything is catch up on my favorite really awful blogger. In the past, before I had any netiquette at all, I complained about her blog here. I also left some less-than-considerate comments (I believe the term “hack” was thrown down) on her site, which was not the right thing to do, even if it is true. I also described about it as like “a gruesome car accident” which I could not stop staring at. Then I realized that I had the wrong mindset about the whole thing, and that her blog was, in fact, utterly hilarious in its pretentiousness and observations about New York. Hence I read big chunks of it once in a while to chuckle.

Anyway, this all led me to the brilliant site Trainwrecks. Yessss, it is evil and mean and highly entertaining. Hee hee. Oh, how it appeals to my hideous bitch side. These people are brilliant. Truly, I am jealous.

*Crock pot cooking is about all I can handle other than making eggs in various styles.

New Year's Resignation #1

The world is full of oxymorons. For example, did last week seem to simultaneously drag on forever and yet be over instantly? I’m not sure how that manages to happen.

Since the first week of the new year is done and gone, I thought reflect upon my new year’s resignations. I didn’t make any resolutions because I’m not resolved to make changes in my life; I’m resigned to them. At the end of last year, I finally received an official diagnosis on one of my mystery ailments, which is polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is a lot like Iraq right now: the rat bastard cyst insurgents have control of my ovaries, and from there are occupying parts of my adrenal system. Hence I am in need of excess insulin to properly process sugars, which means that eventually my pancreas is going to throw its hands up in disgust, refuse to take any more abuse, and just stop working. To help the overtaxed pancreas continue to do the right thing for as long as possible, I need to switch to a low carb diet. That’s my resignation.

So far, I have been very carefully watching what I eat. Yes, I watch as I stuff all sorts of food in my gullet. Sure, I am reducing carbs, but somehow replacing them (almost) solely with cheese. I do love cheese. My ass, both literally and figuratively, does not. It has been smelly new year thus far.

The First Sat. of 2007: My Hole is Filled

Saturday morning I had the hole in my tooth filled. My new dentist was referred to me by a friend from grad school. I figured it would be excruciatingly painful, as the staff already showed their tendency towards sadism by offering me an appointment at 8 AM when I called on Tuesday to say I needed a dentist. Yes, you read that correctly - Saturday at 8 AM. What freak dentist gets up to start drilling holes in people’s mouths at that ungodly hour?!?! Also, let me mention that this practice is in Brooklyn, which while conveniently located off the express subway line that is near by apartment, is still in Brooklyn.

Despite arising from a deep slumber at 6:45 to take the subway to go to the fucking dentist!, I actually was in a good mood. It was absurdly warm out already, the subway came right away, was empty, and moved fast (oddly, no one was waiting on the platforms at each stop so early on a Sat. morning), and the neighborhood the office is located in is lovely. I walked around a bit, appreciating the quiet and the old charm of the apartments and buildings.

Even more surprising, when I arrived at the dentist’s office, I discovered that he was rather easy on the eyes. My friend told me that this was a father-son practice, but not that the son (who she sees) has such a nice face to stare at while he drills holes in your teeth. Fortunately, I did not need Novocain. (The needle in my gum kills me, and although the dental technician insisted that this doctor is especially skilled at shooting people up with the numbing agent, which I found somewhat creepy, I declined to use it right off the bat.)

So all’s well that ends well. I had my hole crammed up with filling, and another small cavity taken care of also. I took the subway home, arrived around 10 am, ate a small snack, and went back to sleep. Then I had bonding time with Future-Sister-in-Law, and after that walked around with Husband and purchased items with gift cards we received during the holidays. Can’t beat that.

Douche Bags Get the Juices Flowing

A fellow BlogHer contributing editor brought this article to my attention: Why (Most) Women Should Not Run. The douche bag who wrote the article claims that because of physics, women who try to run just end up "hurt and saggy instead of cute and little," among other obnoxious statements. Well then. Although I run a few times a week and have never been hurt, I guess I should stop. Physics dictates it, right?

This ridiculous argument did get my brain juices flowing, though. When I was in first grade, I was diagnosed with bronchitis. During that time, I woke up one night gasping for breath. No matter what I did, I could not breathe. It was terrifying. The next day, the doctor said, "Ooops, did I say she had bronchitis. I meant asthma." I was in the hospital for a week, taking oxygen through a mask at times.

My family and I tried not let asthma get in my way. Although laughing hard could bring on a severe asthma attack sometimes, and every fall and spring I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night when I couldn't breathe, I remained an active normal kid. I took my inhaler when I was supposed to, sometimes other steroid medicines like prednisone, and moved on.

Then in third grade during gym class, I ran the 880 yard dash. I was the third person to finish, and pleased. I was a bit out of breath, so I followed my kind gym teacher's suggestion and sat down to try and control my breathing. After a few minutes, I was not getting better, so I asked him if I could go to the nurse for my medicine. Of course, he said sure, and off I went down the halls of my small elementary school.

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the hallway, things got much, much worse. I couldn't even walk it was so hard to breathe. I crawled. By the time I made it into the nurse's office, I was blue. Long story short, my mom and an ambulance were called, and I was carted away on a stretcher to the ER for the usual treatment: an adrenaline shot.

Clearly, I lived. But the incident has long term implications for me, my health, and my overall fitness and happiness. I was literally banned from running and other strenuous exercise. That was fine with me - I was terrified of having another asthma attack. However, the next year when puberty began its cruel grip on me, I really could have used a fitness regime. I gained weight. I used my asthma as a crutch to enable my adolescent laziness. I gained more weight. I also had my first bouts of depression. Exercise could have helped me through all of this - helping my moods with endorphins, control my weight, and increase my self-esteem. But I stayed sedentary.

Fast forward to January 1998: I was overweight and depressed. I wanted to make big changes in my health and fitness, so I forced myself to join a gym. A first, I just walked on a treadmill or rode the exercise bike. I was still scared to do more, and used it as an excuse to hold back at the gym. But over time, my interest in exercise increased and I found that for the first time in years, I wanted to run. I started jogging and to my surprise, I found that I loved it. My asthma, in fact, could handle it. Over the last few years, I kept increasing the speed and time on the treadmill and felt great.

Yesterday, I ran 5 miles. Sure, it took me 54 minutes and 10 seconds to do it, but I don't care. I will never win races or (probably) run a marathon. I am proud of myself, and I will continue to pace myself and run for as long as I am mobile. I hope no other women read this asshole's article and become discouraged.

He's a Genius

E.B. White was years ahead of his time. Not only did he foresee the future with his book Here is New York, but I discovered his knack for predicting the ways of Hollywood. This occurred to me while talking to Rebecca a few minutes ago about sequels.

She was reading a review of The Descent in Entertainment Weekly and mentioned that the American version has a different ending than the British version, in which no one emerges alive. Rebecca pointed out that American audiences can’t deal with the death of a movie hero(ine), and the studios will not let that happen anyway because they need profitable sequels, which brings me to E.B. White and Charlotte’s Web.

I read Charlotte’s Web one summer, maybe before 3rd or 4th grade. I was utterly inconsolable when Charlotte died. We were supposed to go to my grandparents’ house to celebrate my grandpa’s birthday, but I refused to leave my bed because I could not stop crying. (Incidentally, this is also the reaction I have every time I read that damn tearjerker Where the Red Fern Grows. I actually ruined a page in the book because I cried so hard it became soaked.) My mom eventually got me in a semi-presentable condition by reminding me that Charlotte’s daughters were there to carry on her legacies.

Before I get too choked up (and the lump is definitely forming in my throat), my point is that E.B. White gave the studios lots of spin-off movies by making sure that the book ended with Charlotte’s daughters. Mark my words: if the latest Charlotte movie makes money, we’ll be seeing more of those eight-legged critters.

A Slightly More Chipper Take on the New Year

This post originally appeared on January 1 at The Dana Files as part of the Blog Exchange. I just like it a lot, and want to have it up here, too. What can I say?

Many people dislike change. They feel it weighs down their pockets, causes unmanageable bulges in their wallets, or makes too much noise as it clangs together. My husband is one of those people. At the end of the day, he clears all his accumulated change and throws it into our household piggy bank. (He does, however, relish counting change, rolling it in money wrappers, and bringing it to the bank for large deposits.)

I love change. There is something appealing to me about having a variety of quarters, dimes, nickels, and even pennies at my disposal. The different sizes, colors, and weights of coins are romantic in a way, and soothing. If someone offered me a choice between a c-note or shiny quarter, I'd take the bill (I love change, but am not blinded by it!), but in my heart of hearts, I'd crave the heft of the coin. When people discuss abolishing pennies, I am filled with horror and sadness. All change has its place and usefulness. What would "penny candy" taste like if bought for a nickel? (OK, I concede that "penny candy" is not widely, if at all, available these days, but throw me a bone here.) Paying for anything with exact change delights me. Sure, it might annoy the less patient people waiting in line as I fumble for 67 cents, but I derive immense satisfaction from the transaction.

In the fall of 2006, I made a big, scary, and exciting change in my life when I quit my job as a senior program officer at a nonprofit financial institution to try to make it as a writer. So far, it has been a wonderful experience, but as a fiercely independent woman, I am uncomfortable about contributing no real income to my household. Whenever I fret about what 2007 will bring, I reach into the coin purse attached to my wallet and I scoop out a hand full of change. Holding a small amount of solid coins in my hand reminds me that change may come and go, but it will always exist. In the end, I'll be OK.

Something's Rotten in the State of Denmark

Dear Underwear Manufacturers*:

I know know that you think it is "cheeky" to cut the butts on your product narrowly so that my ass hangs out a bit when I wear underwear. You are wrong. It is, instead, uncomfortable and annoying, and the leading cause of wedgies. I am wearing underwear, including briefs which in theory offer more coverage, for a reason. That reason is that I do not want my ass hanging out. If I wanted my ass hanging out, I would wear a thong or g-string. Or I would wear no underwear at all.

Please put the full ass cut back in your products. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Suzanne Reisman

*Except for Jockey and Hanes Her Way Hipsters. These have very nice asses. However, if you can please use cotton that is not so thin that I can see what I ate for breakfast through them, I would be very appreciative. You used to use thicker cotton. You also recently raised your prices. I am not sure why I should pay more money for lower quality fabric. Unless I am paying for the extra centimeters that provide full ass coverage. Then it is OK. Although I'd pay even more if the undies were not made of some sort of cotton-gassamer blend.

Good Times in 2003

Husband's friend called a few nights ago to ask us what he and his wife should do while they are in Buenos Aires for vacation. Back in Jan. 2004, Husband, Stupid McFuck, and I joined Dr. P in her motherland for 6 days of one of the most relaxing vacations I ever went on. Since I could not remember what the hell we did except eat a lot of really delicious food and wander around, I looked back at our pictures from the trip. This led me to also view pictures of a roadtrip that Husband and I took in Oct. 2003 to Massachusetts and upstate NY. Here are some from the zoo, where the awesome wife of another one of Husband's friend's worked:
This is Husband in the giraffe compound. We were able to pet the giraffe, which was very cool. Little hairs were stuck to my hand when I was done. I didn't expect that.
Somehow, despite my awful hair, puckery eyes that look like I'm in some Dutch Renaissance painting, and retainer, I did not scare away all the butterflies. Thank goodness I finally cut my hair short, no matter how many people tell me I look butch!This is at the TePee, a tourist trap from the 1950s that is dying thanks to the NYS Thruway. I loved it there especially because there was a chili stand as well, run by a character with the nom de guerre "TePee Pete." The chili kicked major ass. I also bought some strangely delicious salsa. Now that Husband and I have a car, I hope to go back there this summer, assuming it is still around.

Husband and I sure have some good times. It makes me smile to think about them.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

A few weeks ago, a "nonpartisan" book came out called "Who Really Cares: The Surprising Truth About Compassionate Conservatism" by Arthur C. Brooks. I was asked to look at this book and write about it by a friend who is starting his own magazine. Every time I touch this book, though, I feel like my soul just got a new stain on it.

The book is a great reminder of why I loathe conservative firebrands. They have a very special knack for looking at data, claiming to analyze it, hiding the figures at the back of the book, and then writing a book in which the data supports nothing they say it does. There is a word for this, and it is lying.

For example, look at this chart, which I copied directly from page 192. (I'll wait...)

OK, does that chart indicate that liberals are less generous than conservatives, as Mr. Brooks claims in his book? No it does not. It says that religious conservatives and religious liberals are equally involved with charity. It says that secular liberals are less involved in charity than religious folks, and it demonstrates that secular conservatives are the biggest fucking assholes on the planet. Overall, I am going to have to say that this chart does not support Mr. Brooks's point in the least. Not that it did not stop him from saying that it did.

And that, folks, what I call a lie. Or as Colbert would say, an "untruthiness."

Happy Birthday Mom!

Sixty years ago today, my granny braved a blizzard in Chicago and delivered a baby girl by c-section after the kid's nose got hooked on her tail bone and she couldn't be forced out. Can you believe that the person who wears this t-shirt out in public is 60 years old?Just in case the flash created too much glare from the glitter print and the message is not readable in the pic, it says: "Sex is a misdemeanor. De-More I Miss, De-Meaner I get." Ha ha ha. That cracks me up. She wore this shirt all the time when I was a kid. See? I am so easily explained....

Happy birthday, Mom! You are awesome, and I love you.

You Be the Judge

Here is the infamous "back massager" another teacher gave my mom as a holiday gift and the ensuing discussion that took place over birthday cake:
Husband: Are you sure someone gave you back massager?
Mom: Yeah, she even used it on me!
Granny: Oooh, look at that! It looks like a penis and testicles!
Bubbe: It's people who need to take Viagra.

So - back massager or phallic art? You decide.

12:40 PM update:
The "back massager" works by grasping the flat shaft and rolling the studded testicles on yourself.

Happy New Year and All that Shit

January 1 is probably my least favorite day of the year. I am not sure that I have ever not been depressed on January 1. It always seems to be a reminder of the fact that although I got excited the prior night about the coming year and all that it may bring, really, nothing at all has changed. It's just the same old shit going on in the world and my immediate life. (Husband just commented that this is very morose, but that is just how January 1 is. I can't help it.)

Oh well. Tomorrow is a new day. Don't worry about me. I'll cheer up sometime in February.